


Dream

by yeaka



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe, Androids, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-12 20:24:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15348015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Prince Prompto doesn’t have too much to live for, but at least his father’s latest gift knows just what to say.





	Dream

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: The T is just for a sad situation rather than anything sexual. And I know this should probably be a WIP, but ain’t nobody got time for that...
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Final Fantasy XV or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Prompto hates more things than he’d care to admit, less than his ‘father’ would like, and ‘council meetings’ are at the very top of that medium-sized list. Every time Loqi shows up at his door, his heart beats a little quicker, like regular humans say theirs do when something good happens to them, and all his hopes get up—he gets to _leave_. He gets a break from the stuffy quarters he’s crammed into—maybe he’ll get as far as the kitchens this time, or even out into the _yard_ , even if it’s only for more training. But then Loqi grunts out that it’s a _council meeting_ , and all of Prompto’s dreams come crashing down.

He’s given a seat next to Iedolas, across from the Chancellor, and various other dignitaries enter the towering hall to scrape their chairs back from the table. Almost all of them come dressed in full armour, as though they expect a fight amongst their own people, and it always makes Prompto feel distinctly out of place in his fabric clothes. They all come wearing frowns or even scowls or, in Aranea’s and the Chancellor’s case, preemptive smirks. Prompto can understand why. Like him, they probably realize that the name is a complete misnomer. There is no working _council_. There’s only his ‘father,’ who listens to a slew of military reports before barking out orders and very rarely taking any advice in return. The only person who ever gets a word in is the Chancellor, which confuses Prompto to no end, but some mysteries are too creepy to try and solve. Ardyn Izunia is one of those mysteries.

For most of the meeting, Prompto sits straight in his chair, fighting the urge to slouch. Most of the meeting is boring, other parts plain _disturbing_ , but he’s learned well enough not to let it show on his face just how unexcited their continued conquests make him. The only other person who looks as ill at ease with their plans is Ravus, but the last time Prompto tried to make friends over that common ground, it didn’t go well. Luna said she’d make Ravus apologize. But Luna’s too kind and pretty and all around angelic to be burdened with the Imperial Prince, so Prompto hasn’t gone back again to say the apology never happened. He’s glad Luna doesn’t have to come to meetings.

He thinks Luna will escape somehow, sooner rather than later, if not with Gentiana than with the Lucians she likes—she says they’re not monsters and they’ll save her someday. Prompto told her to stop telling him those things. Because that’s absolutely _traitorous_ , and he’s already struggling.

He makes it to the part where Caligo complains about another batch of malfunctioning MTs. Prompto tries not to let his head shoot up. He tries to stifle his wince but doesn’t manage to stop himself from touching his wrist. Even though his barcode’s covered, everyone must know it’s there. He can feel Ravus’ eyes boring holes into him across the table, _judging_ him for it. Caligo recommends the MTs be terminated, and Iedolas okays the decision without a second thought. Prompto doesn’t look at him.

Prompto waits as the meeting winds down, and just when he thinks he’s free, when Iedolas has finished a tirade of orders and ended with the usual _glory to the Empire_ speech, Ardyn clears his throat. Everyone turns to look at him. He looks at Iedolas only, smoothly asking, “Might I make a final suggestion, Your Majesty?”

Anyone else would get a firm _no_ , but Ardyn gets a simple, “What is it?”

“In regards to those MTs brought up earlier... might I remind his majesty that decommissioning mature androids is a costly, time-consuming process?” Iedolas lifts one white brow, because the Empire disposes of unwanted things all the time. Unfazed, Ardyn continues, “There was one particular unit that, whilst inadequate in military requirements, displayed strong domestic abilities. Perhaps it would be wise to simply relocate it to a non-military use? Such as... a playmate for the prince?”

Prompto’s cheeks abruptly heat, head snapping towards Ardyn. As usual, he has no idea what game the Chancellor’s playing. Iedolas dryly asks, “And why would my heir need a ‘playmate,’ of all things?”

Ardyn’s grin is slick as oil. It makes a shiver snake through Prompto’s body. When Prompto takes his many pictures around his limited canvas, he always tries to keep the Chancellor out of his frame. And that look is far more unsettling in person, pulled up close, with _Prompto_ already somehow in Ardyn’s scheme.

“I believe it would benefit his rule. After all, his majesty has expressed certain... concerns...” Iedolas’ look turns deadly, Prompto’s pale, and Ardyn wisely doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t say in front of the others what Prompto already knows: that he’s too _soft_. Ardyn reasons, “Would it not be good training for him to learn to command a single MT before he inherits control of an army?”

The thought of _controlling an army_ of artificial people makes Prompto feel sick. He thinks Ardyn’s doing it on purpose. It gets worse when Iedolas agrees, “A fine point, Chancellor... have the unit sent to Prompto’s room.”

Turning a pointed look to Prompto, Iedolas adds, “See that you _make_ it serve you well.”

* * *

Prompto spends the vast majority of his time locked up in his private wing, either zoning out on television and games or pointing his camera out his window. He understands that Iedolas doesn’t want anything to happen to his precious heir, especially given how hard it was to engineer such an heir in the first place, but the hefty escort back to his own quarters still seems a bit much. When Prompto’s finally alone again, standing in the middle of his living room, he can’t help itching at his wrist. Covering it up every minute of every day that he’s allowed to hasn’t done anything to erase it from his memory. Most of the time he hates what it represents—the mechanical, _inhuman_ part of him—but other times, he hates the _real_ part, _Iedolas’ DNA_ , even more.

He takes the wristband off when he showers, and he does a thorough rinse, even washing his hair, then blow dries it into place and styles it just _so_ , even though it makes no sense to do so—you can’t impress an android. Prompto tries anyway. He doesn’t know why. He dresses in the nicest looking non-formal clothes he has—fitted dark pants and a sleeveless black top, perfectly simple and non-royal. He’s just slipped on a matching wristband when a knock sounds on his door.

He takes in a deep breath before he goes to answer it. He doesn’t know what to expect, but it’s not what he finds.

When the door’s open, there’s a very _normal_ looking man on the other side, if a little on the tall side and a lot on the handsome side. Prompto just sort of blinks up at him for a moment, then says, “Hi.”

The man, who Prompto’s never seen before and isn’t dressed in armour and therefore must be the one that Prompto’s waiting for, bows from the waist and answers, “Hello.”

“He’s all yours,” Loqi grunts behind the man. He looks thoroughly unimpressed, but Loqi’s unimpressed with most things that aren’t his own victory. The last time he lost a game of King’s Knight to Prompto, he threw his own phone out the window and swore he’d never speak to the ‘useless piece of garbage dipshit robot bastard prince’ again. If Prompto had reported that, Loqi would probably still be in the dungeons. 

But Prompto’s still vaguely holding out the hope that someday one of his accidental enemies will grow into a decent friend, so he kept it to himself. Loqi must’ve known he overstepped, because he hasn’t bothered Prompto since, and he doesn’t say anything now about Prompto getting an android manservant, even though the judgment’s clearly burning in his eyes. He just waves his guards off, and they disappear down the hallway, leaving Prompto to gesture the MT inside.

 _MT_ doesn’t seem like the right word. The man looks every bit as realistic as Prompto does, maybe even better—Prompto can’t see anything on his wrists. His purple button-up shirt is rolled up his forearms, his dress-pants fitted, his posture rigid but not mechanical. He’s even wearing glasses, making Prompto wonder if that was the malfunction. He comes in to shut the door behind himself, then greets officially, “Your Highness.”

“Prompto,” Prompto corrects, and when the android lifts one eyebrow, Prompto explains, “You can call me Prompto. Or Prom. I mean, nobody calls me Prom, but I feel like I’d be a nickname person if there were people to nickname around here. I mean, besides ones online. But I’m pretty sure Ie—uh, my dad—has those all screened. And I guess those are handles, not nicknames.” Then he shuts his mouth and tries to fight an incoming blush, because he definitely just rambled. He almost adds that he’d probably be talkative too, if there was anyone to talk to. He has a lot of ideas of what he’d be like if he _wasn’t here._

When the android obligingly says, “Prompto,” and nothing more, Prompto wonders aloud: 

“Do you have a name?”

“I was designated ‘Ignis’,” the android offers, which is a lot better than the series of numbers and maybe letters Prompto was expecting. But _Ignis_ is already nothing like he was expecting. Ignis’ ash-brown hair is even brushed up off his forehead, deliberately styled. Prompto didn’t even know androids could _have_ hair, let alone bother styling it. 

But then, _he’s_ not entirely organic, and he put his hair up for no reason. The reminder is as unpleasant as it always is. Prompto tries to distract himself from that old self-doubt by blurting, “You look good. Like... human. I mean, not like—well—you know.”

Mercifully, Ignis doesn’t make fun of his stupidity (evidently, Ignis wasn’t programmed by Caligo) and just answers, “Thank you. I was designed to look pleasing.”

Prompto thinks Ignis looks _very pleasing_ but doesn’t say it. Yet he looks strangely innocuous, too. Like he could stroll into a crowd—maybe a Lucian one from the slight difference in his eyes and hair—and blend right in. With the trim but clear definition of muscle in his lean body, he’d probably be welcomed into any group. But his high cheekbones and strong jaw might look better with a smile. 

Prompto doesn’t know if MTs can smile. He knows that he can, because he used to do it in the mirror when he was young and just realizing what he was. Horrified, he just wanted to be _sure_. Whenever he takes photographs of his smile, they don’t look as genuine as he’d like.

Ignis would make a good photography model. That’s probably not what Iedolas wanted. Prompto drops both lines of thought and steps further back into the room, gesturing around and starting, “Well, these are my quarters, Ignis. Just... make yourself at home.”

Ignis glances aside. He spots the black and red vest discarded in the corner and goes to pick it up.

* * *

Prompto sits on the couch and plays _Chocobo Racer_ in single-player mode while Ignis alternates between tidying up his messy quarters and dipping into the kitchenette. Meals are often brought to Prompto from the kitchens—he’s rarely invited to dine with his ‘father,’ which isn’t any hardship—but occasionally, the place is far too busy for him, and he’s told to ‘fend for himself.’ Maybe Ignis will fend for him. Ignis asks him once, “What would you like for dinner?” And when Prompto just sort of shrugs, Ignis nods and leaves. Prompto half hopes Ignis will make something tasty.

But he half hopes Ignis won’t, because it feels weird. It feels _wrong_ to subjugated Ignis just because he’s an android, when Prompto himself is barely human. It doesn’t feel right to sit on the couch and be a lazy lump while Ignis slaves on around him, just because the Empire thinks androids are _disposable._ And the only reason Prompto’s not is because Iedolas wants to make sure someone with his disgusting blood is around to conquer everything after. 

Somehow, even the chocobo theme sounds sad. Prompto knows it’s him. And he doesn’t want to just mope—he’s done that for _years_.

Pausing his game, he gets up and heads for the kitchenette. Sure enough, Ignis is behind the counter, chopping various herbs that Prompto didn’t even know were stocked there. The kitchen looks immaculate—the countertops practically shine. For a moment, Prompto watches Ignis work. Then he asks, “Iggy?”

Despite the unexplained nickname, Ignis glances up. Prompto’s secretly happy that he doesn’t correct Prompto back to ‘Ignis,’ even though Ignis is a perfectly good name. “Can you play video games?”

Ignis blinks. His green eyes are bright and clear beyond the thin rims of his glasses. He answers in his deep, crisp voice, “I confess, I’ve never had the opportunity. But I’d certainly be willing to learn if you would like.”

Prompto would like. With a tentative smile, Prompto mutters, “Thanks.” And just to continue the conversation: “What’re you making?”

“Peppery daggerquill rice.” Prompto’s never heard of that, and it must be clear on his face, because Ignis explains, “The recipe came to me during one of my... lessons. If you have no objections...”

“Nope, not a one.” It sounds good.

It sounds complicated. And Ignis evidently chose and concocted it on his own. He didn’t need instructions. Obviously, he’s got some form of personality. 

Prompto isn’t naïve enough to think that maybe, just maybe, instead of a subject, he’ll get a _friend_.

But Luna told him once that hope’s worth hanging onto, so he does.

* * *

Peppery daggerquill rice is _amazing_. It’s officially one of Prompto’s favourite foods. He digs into his large plate with relish, and he’s sure to say over it, “This is _delicious_ , Iggy! Thanks!”

Ignis, currently loading up the dishwasher, pauses to give Prompto a small, genuine smile that nearly makes Prompto’s heart stop. Ignis smiles better than he does.

But Ignis putters elegantly about his kitchen, cleaning up, while Prompto stuffs his face. With his tenth forkful halfway to his mouth, Prompt thinks to ask, “Can you eat?”

“Yes,” Ignis answers, whilst scraping out the pan he cooked the meat in. “But it’s not necessary.”

“Then you should eat with me,” Prompto says, because: “This is too good not to share.”

Ignis smiles indulgently. He finishes up with the dishes, but then he comes around, taking a seat at the round dining table and serving himself a smaller portion. The meal’s more enjoyable with company. Prompto contents himself with that for a while, letting his eyes drift and his mind go with them.

He mainly looks at and thinks about _Ignis_ , and eventually, he accidentally blurts, “You look sort of Lucian.” At Ignis’ raised brow, Prompto corrects, “I mean, not in a bad way, I just meant, uh, y’know—” But he probably doesn’t know, because everyone outside of Prompto and Luna and maybe Aranea seems to think that every Lucian’s ugly just for being _Lucian_. And even there, Aranea might’ve been joking. 

Ignis doesn’t look like he took offense. He answers only, “I believe that was intentional. I was originally altered for an infiltration mission into Lucis.” Prompto doesn’t ask _what happened_ , but maybe Ignis can tell that he wants to, because Ignis then explains, “Unfortunately, the level of sentience required for such a thorough mission meant inevitable fluctuations in other parameters usually handled by programming. I was unable to score high enough on the required tests, and the idea was ultimately abandoned.”

Then Ignis should’ve been reassigned to another mission. Puzzled, Prompto prompts, “You weren’t a strong enough fighter?”

“Emotionally, yes.”

“...Emotionally...?”

“Physically, I’m quite capable,” Ignis clarifies. He pauses for a few conspicuous seconds before finishing, in a quieter voice, “The mission required a certain level of... ruthlessness. My handlers felt I may have sympathized with Lucis. Thus, I will never get to see it.”

Ignis’ eyes fall to his dish, and he suddenly becomes quite interested in his meal, even though he said he didn’t need it. Prompto’s left staring, wondering if his father sent a plant to reveal his own betrayal, or if the Six really have taken pity on and blessed him. 

Even knowing how unlikely it all is that he could ever have a happy ending, Prompto still spends much of his meal contemplating just how much Ignis was taught about getting away and into Lucis. And if Ignis would still like to go.

And if he’d take Prompto with him.

* * *

Prompto watches a movie after dinner. It isn’t a very good one, but he doesn’t have much selection. Ravus says that’s because no one makes movies during a _war_ , but Aranea says it’s because no one will show the ‘precious prince’ the really good ones. He doesn’t know which one to believe, and he doesn’t want to bother Luna with something so trivial. He rarely gets to see Luna, anyway. If he gets to again, he’s going to save all his questions for things about _Ignis_.

Ignis comes to him after the opening scene, easing down onto the couch, all long legs and suave countenance. Prompto’s dimmed the lights in the room, but he can see a bit of the lit-up reflection of the screen in Ignis’ glasses. He watches Ignis more in his peripherals than he watches the actual movie right in front of him. 

While the heroine is silently hiding from the zombies, Ignis asks, “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

Prompto toys with different answers, most just variations of ‘no,’ until he works up the courage to actually say, “You don’t have to... have to act like a slave...”

Without missing a beat, Ignis answers, “That’s what I was engineered for.”

Prompto hates how true that is. He counters, “It doesn’t matter. You’re more than that. You can be more than that.” Well, he can within the limited context of Prompto’s quarters, anyway. But that’s not what Prompto means.

Ignis quietly mentions, “You were engineered to be a conqueror.”

He didn’t know the infantry knew that. Not that it matters.

 _Prompto_ knew it. And he really thought that was the end of it. Ignis repeats: “You can be more than that.”

A deep breath. A zombie lunges out from behind the pews, pinning the heroine down, but she knees it in the face and tosses it off of her. It hits the far wall in an explosion of bad cgi. Prompto doesn’t really see it.

He never really knew whether or not to think of MTs as _people_ before. If he couldn’t figure that out, how could he know if _he_ was? But... he thinks Ignis is a person. Ignis smells like the raw earth from the training yards—just the sort of thing that Prompto likes. Maybe he chopped the spices up a little too quickly to be human, and maybe he hasn’t had a glass of water all day, and maybe when his sleeves ride up too high, Prompto can see the faint seams around his elbows. But he talks like he has a heart, and that counts for something.

 _Prompto_ has a heart. Luna told him that a long time ago, but Luna’s so _nice_ , and Prompto only half believed her.

Prompto shuffles a little closer and lets himself lean on Ignis’ shoulder. Ignis isn’t warm the way that Prompto is, but his skin’s still soft, and he lets Prompto lie there. He watches the movie with Prompto, even though he must be capable of so many better things than surviving terrible cinema.

Prompto just enjoys the company. And while the heroine fights her way to victory, he wonders if his fate really is so sealed, or if it’s possible that he might someday meet the Lucian prince somewhere other than a battlefield.


End file.
